Fisher had considered moving out on multiple occasions, but with rent so high in the city, and without a promotion in years, the place was the most she could afford at the moment.
Fisher was in excellent shape. She ran a mile each morning. Whenever the elevators were taking too long, she would race up the stairs to her apartment on the sixth floor.
That day, however, she was spent.
After meeting Rachel Scott at the morgue, she decided to pay a visit to the security alarm company. They were displeased to see her. The moment they saw her badge and heard what she was looking for, however, they were eager to assist her in her investigation. It seemed everyone had an opinion about what happened to Dillon Scott.
Unfortunately, the footage was of no use.
The camera was sensor-activated, turning on and off whenever there was any movement. The camera caught the limo driver dropping Scott off at the house at around six thirty in the evening, but the moment Scott disabled the alarm with his password, the camera was never reactivated.
Maybe he forgot to turn it back on, she thought. Or maybe he didn’t want anyone to know what he was up to.
An elevator arrived, and she took it up to her floor.
Her apartment was brightly colored. When she had moved in, the beige walls had turned yellowish after years of accumulating dirt and grime. She took it upon herself to give her place a new coat of paint.
The bedroom was on the right, with the kitchen and living room on the left. The previous tenants had enclosed the balcony, and she now used it as a meditation room.
The walls of the apartment were covered in family photos. They were mostly of her and her three brothers posing with their parents. Some of the photos still made her cringe. There was one where her parents decided to dress up all the children the same. In another one, Fisher looked like a boy. Her father cut all her brothers’ hair, so her mom figured she could do the same. This was a big mistake. Her mom ended up almost shaving her head entirely. Fisher wore a scarf over her head until her hair grew back to a decent length. Most of the kids in school thought she was Muslim.
Fisher dropped on the sofa and put her feet up on the coffee table. She shut her eyes. It had been a long and exhausting day. With Holt not available, she had to carry the load.
She stayed still for a couple of minutes before getting up and walking over to a DVD stand in the corner. She searched through the movies and pulled one out. On the front was a photo of a youthful-looking Dillon Scott.
She had suddenly felt the urge to watch Romeo and Juliet again. She wanted to be reminded of why she had fallen in love with Scott all those years ago.
TWENTY-SIX
He made his way down the street late at night. Osman Maxwell was wearing a hoodie, a baseball cap, and baggy clothes. The only thing flashy on him were his gold sneakers. They were an exclusive edition, and he had paid a steep price to acquire them.
He didn’t care how much they cost, not when he just had a big windfall.
The people who he hung around with were suspicious. They asked where he had gotten the money.
“It’s none of your damn business,” he told them.
He owed nobody an explanation.
The first time he received a big payout, he had gone to Vegas and foolishly splurged on girls, booze, and drugs, but he had grown up poor and wanted to live a little.
This time, though, he was going to take it easy. He would not draw any unwanted attention.
Osman was a low-level drug dealer and, on occasion, a pimp. The girls needed someone to escort them to and from the client’s place, and he was more than happy to oblige—for a fee, of course. But he was seriously considering doing something else with his life. He had seen way too many people get shot and killed in his line of work, and Osman didn’t want to be another casualty.
Drugs and prostitution were a mean business that made you hard and cruel. In order to survive, you lied, cheated, and hurt people. Osman had no qualms about doing either of those.
He was just tired of hustling for scraps.
He had bigger plans.
The first time he received the money, he had spent it. This time he was going to invest his cold, hard windfall.
That night, however, he wanted to have fun and blow off some steam. The last couple of days were really stressful. Everything had to be just right or else it could have backfired on him. He could end up in prison doing ten to fifteen years.
Fortunately, everything went smoothly, and he came away a richer man.
He approached a building with no sign. There was a long line out by the front. A huge man stood behind velvet ropes. The man could crush Osman with his bare hands if he wanted to.
Osman pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. If the man refused to let him in, Osman would try his luck somewhere else.
The man revealed a toothy smile and snatched the bill from his hand. He removed the rope as Osman entered the club.
The music was loud. Lights flashed all around him. The club was packed, and Osman had to push his way past a group of people before he made his way to the bar.
He ordered a drink.
A girl came up next to him.
“You wanna buy me a drink?” she asked.
Osman eyed her from top to bottom. She wore revealing clothes, along with extra makeup and fake eyelashes.
“Sure,” he replied with a smile. He ordered whatever she wanted.
“My name’s Maya.”
It was likely not her real name, he thought.
“What’s yours?” she asked.
Two can play that game. “It’s C.J,” Osman said.
“You come here often, C.J.?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Whenever I get the chance.”
He knew why she was chatting him up. To get in the club, you had to have money, and once in, you had to have more money to have fun. The drinks were expensive, and so were the girls.
Maya was not some regular girl out for a good night. She was an escort. And judging by her age, she had so far been unsuccessful in hooking a client.
Osman would string her along until he found someone younger. If he did not, she would do for the night.
He saw that a man sitting next to him was staring at his cell phone, engrossed in a news article.
“What’s that?” Osman asked.
“Oh, you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Dillon Scott is dead.”
Osman’s eyes widened in disbelief. “When?”
“Yesterday. They found his body in a house in Milton.”
Osman pulled out a wad of cash and paid the bartender.
“I gotta go,” he said to Maya.
“You need company?” she asked with a smile.
“Maybe next time.”
He hurried out of the club.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The next morning, Fisher was back at her desk at the Milton PD. She had a fitful night. She couldn’t help but feel like she was missing something. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she knew it had to do with the three hours between the time Scott left the studio and the time he asked Tillman to meet him at his house.
If he was so eager to work with Tillman on the script, then why not stay late at the studio? Also, why not just go straight from the studio to his house with Tillman? Why ask her to come later that night?
Fisher leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling.
Tillman was drained from a long rehearsal, so she had declined the offer. Maybe Scott figured after some rest, she would be ready to get back to work a few hours later.
But then why did Scott constantly check his cell phone? And why did she not find it when she searched the house?
Fisher had a feeling Scott was meeting someone that night. It would explain the gap between the end of rehearsals and the time he invited Tillman over to his house.
Did this person arrive shortly after the limo driver had left? And did they take the cell phone after they had murdered Scott?
She wasn’t sure about any of those answers.
She knew from her training that if something didn’t make sense, go back to the scene of the crime.
She turned her attention to the folder on her desk, which contained detailed photographs of the living room, the hallway, the entrance to the house, the kitchen, the bedroom, and even the main-floor bathroom. They were taken so that the prosecutor could lead a jury through a tour of the house when the case went to trial.
She went through the photos and frowned. There was nothing in particular that stood out to her. She had combed every inch of the house when she was there, and it was still fresh in her mind.
After ten minutes, she dropped the photos and put her face in her hands. She rubbed her temples and gritted her teeth.
What am I not seeing? she wondered. What am I overlooking?
Her thoughts were broken by a conversation two desks over. A male detective was telling a female detective a story from years earlier.
“So, I’m in the car, right?” the male detective said. “And it’s pouring like no one’s business. I mean, it’s so bad that I can’t see five feet in front of me. Now, it’s also late at night, so visibility is already low, and with the rain, I have no idea where I’m going. My wipers are on full, but all they are doing is moving the rain from one end of the windshield to the other. I’m pretty much driving blind. My wife’s in the backseat, and the baby is about to come out any minute.”
“So what did you do?” the female detective asked earnestly.
The male detective shrugged. “What could I do? I parked the car by the side of the road and jumped into action. It was a scene straight out of a movie. I’ve never experienced anything like it. I was so scared that I nearly blacked out from the stress.”
“Oh my god!” the female detective exclaimed.
“But I’ll tell you this: The moment I held my son in my arms, all that stress melted away in an instant. That kid was a miracle. He was a sign from Heaven that no matter how tough things get, they will eventually get better if you push your way through.”
Fisher smiled. She had heard the detective tell that story to every new member of the unit, and he had told it with the same gusto when he told Fisher years ago.
She turned back to the photos. She wasn’t sure if going through them again was worthwhile.
She was examining them one by one when something flashed in the back of her mind. She opened her desk drawer, searched through the contents inside, found the magnifying glass, and held it up to the photo.
She turned to her laptop, typed on the keyboard, and confirmed her suspicion.
She grabbed her jacket and left the station.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Callaway was back at the department store’s shipping center. He had followed Frank Henderson from his home to his place of work. Frank was inside the building, likely getting ready for the scheduled deliveries for the day.
Callaway knew he would have to confront Frank sooner or later. He debated doing it when Frank left his house, but he worried his children might see his reaction. Frank was not going to appreciate a stranger meddling in his personal life. No man would. Then there was the matter of his wife. How would he act toward her knowing she had hired a private investigator to follow him?
The house was out of the question.
What about the shipping center? Their discussion would likely cause a scene, which could even affect Frank’s employment. Callaway was not sure if management knew of his relationship with the other woman. Did they have a policy against workplace romance? Callaway didn’t know, and he was not going to risk it.
What he was about to do required delicacy. It was a personal matter between a husband and wife. Callaway was not here to get between them, he was only here to convey a message. If Frank refused to heed his advice, there was nothing he could do about it. He could not very well force him to continue in his marriage if there were irreparable differences.
He would tread carefully.
Frank appeared from behind the building. He got in the eighteen-wheeler and pulled out of the lot.
Callaway followed behind.
The first two deliveries were routine stops from the day before, but the third stop was new.
The truck entered a vacant parking lot and came to a stop. Callaway parked on a side street with a clear view of the lot.
A white cargo van drove up and parked next to the truck. Two men got out of the van just as Frank emerged from the eighteen-wheeler. Frank unhinged the trailer’s rear door and slid it up. The two men hurried inside and began moving goods from the trailer to the van. When they were done, one of them handed Frank an envelope. Frank put the envelope in his pocket without looking inside.
Callaway had photographed everything.
The men got back inside the van and drove away. Frank stood there for a moment before he got back in the eighteen-wheeler and pulled away.
Callaway wasn’t sure what had just happened, but something did not feel right about what he saw.
He put the Impala in gear and continued following Frank.
Frank made two more drops before Callaway finally decided to make his move. There was no point in delaying it. He either completed what he was hired to do, or he did not. If he quit, he would have to face Betty Henderson again and return the five hundred dollars, along with an apology.
Frank had just unloaded goods and was making his way back to the eighteen-wheeler when Callaway approached. “Frank Henderson?” Callaway asked.
Frank turned to him.
“My name is Lee Callaway. I’m a private investigator.”
Callaway held up his business card.
Frank paused and then looked at it. “What do you want with me?” Frank asked, concerned.
Up close, Frank was an imposing man. He could snap Callaway in half with his two fingers. Callaway’s weapon was tucked behind his back in case things got out of hand.
“Your wife hired me to follow you.”
Frank’s face turned red. “She did what?”
“She knows you’re cheating on her.”
Frank grunted.
“She doesn’t care if you are,” Callaway quickly said, wanting to keep their conversation from escalating. “All she cares about is you.”
Frank stood still.
“She hired me not to spy on you, but to convince you that she loves you, and that your children need you.”
Frank grimaced. “I love my wife, and I adore my children,” he said.
“I’m sure you do, but I have photos of you and another woman going into a house together.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think, it’s what your wife thinks.”
Frank’s eyes moistened. This was not the reaction Callaway was expecting. He figured Frank would threaten him, or lunge at him, but he looked like a wounded animal.
“Betty’s been through a lot,” Frank said. “If you show her those photos, you’ll be killing her.”
He got in his eighteen-wheeler and drove away.
TWENTY-NINE
Fisher noticed that an even larger crowd had gathered outside the residence from the last time she was here. The press had not left the property, for obvious reasons. The house was still an active crime scene, and if there were any major discoveries, it would happen here.
The press, however, was now outnumbered by the fans who were arriving by the dozens. The outpouring of grief was palpable. They wept openly, held movie posters, lit candles, and offered prayers for the deceased movie star. There was even a bus with tourists who had likely taken a detour just to be here to pay their respects.
As Fisher got closer, she noticed a memorial had been set up for Scott. A large photo of his smiling face was stuck on a two-by-four, which was planted next to the entrance. Flowers piled two feet up were placed all around the photo.
Fisher had called in advance. The officers at the scene had already cleared a path for her as she d
rove through the crowd. Even then, the press snapped photos of her SUV. The cameras recorded her every move. Some fans even reached over and touched her vehicle as if they were trying to connect with their fallen idol. They didn’t realize she was not related to Scott.
She moved past the yellow police tape and drove up the gravel road. A uniformed officer was standing by the front door. To her dismay, it was not Officer McConnell.
Why am I thinking about him now? she wondered.
The officer unlocked the front door and held it for her.
She entered and shut the door behind her.
Back at the station, when the male detective had regaled the female detective about the birth of his son, something had flashed in Fisher’s mind.
She pulled out a photo that showed the house’s hallway. With a magnifying glass, she had narrowed her focus on a pair of boots. They were black, and one of the pair had fallen on its side, exposing the soles. Fisher had spotted mud on the soles.
She walked down the hall. The boots were in the exact same position as in the photo. They were a size nine, and they had belonged to Scott. She leaned down and took a closer look. Mud and dirt had dried under the boots. With a gloved hand, she scraped some of the dirt away to make sure.
When she was walking up to the house, she noticed the area around the front steps was covered in dirt. The mud could have come from there.
She already confirmed that on the night Scott was murdered, it had rained between nine and eleven o’clock. When the limo driver had dropped Scott off, the dirt was still dry.
So how did Scott’s boots get mud on them? He was not a smoker, so he wouldn’t have gone out to light a cigarette. He could have gone for a walk, but Fisher doubted he would have done so in the rain. Plus, the next neighbor was a mile away, so there was nowhere else to go.
The only logical conclusion was that Scott had left the house right after the limo driver had dropped him off. And when he returned, it was raining, and that’s how he got mud on his boots.
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 52
